


S.H.I.E.L.D. Agents and the Art of Night Roosting a.k.a. Just Go to Sleep, Barton

by lozateazer, purrslink



Series: Feed the Birds [1]
Category: The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Animals, Alternative Universe - Birds, Established Relationship, Gen, M/M, Phil just really wants to sleep, Wingfic, except someone is making that difficult, oh right, that relationship thing, why did he ever agree to this?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2013-04-12
Packaged: 2017-12-08 07:39:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/758816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lozateazer/pseuds/lozateazer, https://archiveofourown.org/users/purrslink/pseuds/purrslink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first warning that all was not right in paradise was the soft whush of feathers near Phil’s ear. "Shove over."</p>
            </blockquote>





	S.H.I.E.L.D. Agents and the Art of Night Roosting a.k.a. Just Go to Sleep, Barton

**Author's Note:**

> This one shot is very much inspired by [Dr. Kara's](http://dr-kara.tumblr.com/) amazing pictures, in which [Clint](http://dr-kara.tumblr.com/post/34712867857/animal-avengers-tony-steve-natasha) has the wings of a red-shouldered hawk and [Phil](http://dr-kara.tumblr.com/post/34764921450/animal-avengers-tony-steve-natasha-clint) has the wings of a gyrfalcon.
> 
> Like most of our serious discussions about great art and awesome things, crack eventually reared its head. And then came this. We'd say we're sorry but we're not.

The first warning that all was not right in paradise was the soft whush of feathers near Phil’s ear. "Shove over."

He should have known it wasn't going to last. "Clint..."

"I have to pee, ok?"

" _Barton._ "

And just like that it was starting all over again. That awkward adjustment into one confined space, nine feet wing spaces included. It had looked good on paper. Phil had even made three diagrams. 

Now, Phil was practically having flashbacks to twenty minutes ago. No judge would put him away.

Phil tried tactic one: appealing with reason. "Just hold it, damnit, we only have two hours until we have to get up."

It worked about as well as Phil thought it would. 

"I _can't_ fucking hold it." Primaries pushed against Phil's neck and the mattress groaned at the restless shift of legs and arms now on both sides. "You keep _jabbing_ me in the fucking _kidneys_."

Part of Phil knew there was an adjustment period. That this fell firmly under that category of things that needed work. Anything could be solved with enough time, patience, and perseverance. He just wished solving problems could wait until not 3am.

He tried tactic two. "If you would just stay still I wouldn't have to keep jabbing you." There was more snap in his voice this time as he felt his primary coverts press harder into what had been a comfortable, warm stomach.

Clint's voice wasn't any less pleasant. "If you didn't keep inching toward the middle of the bed I wouldn't have to keep moving."

Phil wondered when bed talk had devolved into old married bickering. "Inching away from the edge! You're the one hogging the bed."

"Don't even get me started on hogging, Mr. All-of-the-Sheet."

There was a rather large and droopy wing stirring up the air, red-brown feathers slapping in his face and rustling the open _Bowhunt America_ Phil was sure Clint had left on the floor. Again. A blast of cold air from a fluffed sheet did nothing to remind Phil that the new _they_ had been _him_ not too long ago.

Tactic three wasn’t exactly planned. "I swear to all that is good in this world, if you get up to go to the bathroom, you are not getting back into this bed." Phil wasn't particularly proud of himself in that moment.

To Clint's credit the wing stopped and the blanket settled. A long pause had Phil hoping against a long history of useless hope that this - whatever this sudden, random, so very irritatingly Clint expression of unease was about - was over.

An ugly snort did nothing to reassure Phil, however. "Really, Phil? Really? I didn't know you were into that. You could have just said please."

No one could say he hadn't tried.

The glare Phil gave in the dark was enough to make even his own wings pause mid annoyed fluff. " ....Go back to sleep, _Hawkeye_."

"I will, _sir_." Even Phil knew that was a promise followed by an ugly truth, though the moniker had been enough to get Clint's foot from pushing against his bad (previously broken, not age, thank you) knee. "After I go to the bathroom. So move your fucking wing."

"No. I'm comfortable." Phil could identify with the mammoths in front of the L.A. Museum of Contemporary Art. Tactic four: acceptance of the inevitable.

He wasn't alone in tiredness coloring his tone. Phil knew enough about Clint at this point to recognize tired whining from petulant complaining. "If I drown because it was comfortable for you I'm coming back to haunt you. Forever."

Maybe the mammoths had the right idea. "Mmm. Sounds like a plan."

"And all your doughnut places."

"If you say so."

"And your office."

That one drew a snort out of Phil. "You do that already."

The breeze of a restless wing was more distracted movement than anything else. A tell that Clint was in thought that Phil was pleased to note (even if it was now 3:11 am) only he got to see. 

It also meant Clint was running out of things to say. "But I'd be a ghost. So you wouldn't get coffee or bagels with my presence."

"Mm. Still not seeing much of a difference."

"24/7 me. Forever."

Phil wondered if feigning sleep would work. Maybe Clint would talk himself into sleeping. Maybe he’d get lost planning something horrendous to do to his office. Maybe some higher power would look down on Phil and reward his eternal patience by striking the man in his bed with unconsciousness (just nothing lethal, because Phil was tired, the hospital was a ten minute drive one way, and he had to admit the sex was pretty good).

Or maybe he’d start smacking Phil’s face with his wing again.

"Again, not really seeing the difference." His left wing gave an irritated snap out then in. “Except you wouldn't be bitching about going to the bathroom."

"You'd miss me and you'd know it." 

And Phil sighed because the floodgate had been opened and why exactly was he dating again? Being single never sounded so practical. 

"I'd be a constant reminder about how you could have had an awesome boyfriend to watch bad TV with and have sex with if only you'd moved your fucking wing so he could go to the bathroom."

"Maybe." His own wing twitched. "Or maybe you'll end up really regretting not letting your awesome boyfriend get some sleep when he has to go run a mission soon."

There was a sticky silence between them that stretched on for so long Phil worried, momentarily mind you, that he'd only propelled the archer out of bed instead of further in.

Instead, finally, there came, "You've run harder on less."

But the fight was gone and even though the blanket was tugged out from under his hip, again and he could practically feel the bed groaning under the weight of Clint's sulk, wings settled back into place until the warm spots from earlier were once again inhabited.

Phil was a man who took advantage of the opportunities given to him. Which was why he scooted closer to the center of the bed (again), readjusted the 500 thread count around his lower half, and turned his head to lean in and give a quick kiss to Clint's temple. He didn't leave room for return. That would devolve too fast into something that would leave him keyed up and tired in one breath.

It would take time, and he knew that the grumbles coming from Clint weren't the last. This thing between them was too newly redefined to not suffer from the mistakes that came with new territory.

But it would work out, Phil was sure. And when a droopy wing stretched and settled to curl clumsily against his scapulars, well, it wasn't too hard to just go the fuck to sleep.


End file.
